Darno returned to his stance, his feet planted firmly against the floor, his posture calm and centered. This time, however, there was a noticeable difference in his presence. The confidence he carried now was not forced, nor was it reckless. It was the confidence of someone who finally understood himself.
Across from him, Jett rolled his shoulders, clearly irritated.
Darno could feel the faint throbbing in his forearm where Jett had grabbed him earlier. The skin there was red, heated, and tender, a reminder that even now, he could not allow himself to be careless. If Jett managed to get a proper grip again, the consequences could still be severe. But unlike before, his bones had held. His arm hadn’t shattered. His hand hadn’t been crushed.
That alone told him everything he needed to know.
This time... things are different.
Part of Darno couldn’t help but remember the past, the regret that had lingered longer than he liked to admit. The memory of failing to stop Jett before. The moment Sheri had been taken, and he had been powerless to prevent it. That failure had stayed with him, etched into his mind like a scar that never faded.
This fight wasn’t just another battle.
It was a second chance.
Jett lunged forward again, his massive frame surging with force as he threw a heavy punch aimed directly at Darno’s head. Darno didn’t dodge. He didn’t step back. Instead, his arm moved with precision, snapping upward to deflect the strike at the wrist.
The impact echoed sharply through the arena.
Before Jett could recover, Darno countered, his fist snapping forward at the exact moment the opening appeared. The punch landed squarely against Jett’s chest, solid and controlled, yet undeniably powerful.
Jett grunted, his body rocking backward a step.
Darno exhaled slowly, keeping his breathing steady.
I can feel it now, he thought. This isn’t just strength. It’s control.
Once again, Jett attacked, this time throwing a rapid combination of punches, swinging with his full body weight, attempting to overwhelm Darno with sheer power. Darno’s arms moved like clockwork, each block precise, each parry perfectly timed. His feet barely shifted as he redirected each blow, knocking them aside by the wrists and forearms before they could come close to his body.
To the crowd, it almost looked unreal.
It was as if Darno stood in the center of a storm, untouched.
Each time Jett overextended, Darno struck back, not wildly, not recklessly, but with purpose. Every counter was delivered at the perfect moment, each punch carrying weight far heavier than his size suggested.
Jett staggered again, this time clearly surprised.
"That... actually hurt," Jett muttered, rubbing his chest.
Darno said nothing. His eyes remained focused, his breathing measured.
This is it, Darno realized. This is what my martial art was meant to be.
The style Darno practiced was not flashy. It was not aggressive. It was a sub-branch of Karate passed down through his teacher, one that emphasized defense above all else. Unlike other styles that blended kicks, throws, and constant movement, this art was rooted in standing firm, blocking, redirecting, and striking only when the moment was right.
It demanded patience.
It demanded discipline.
And above all, it demanded trust in one’s own defense.
During his training, Darno had endured countless painful exercises. Punching tree trunks barehanded until his knuckles bled. Striking wooden boards wrapped in rope over and over again. Driving his fists into buckets of hot sand without flinching, forcing his body to adapt, to harden.
At the time, he had thought it was brutal.
Now, he understood.
Those years of conditioning had forged his hands into weapons. His fists, wrists, and forearms were already stronger than most fighters’. What his Vow had done was take that foundation, and reinforce it.
The power granted to Darno was not explosive strength. It wasn’t speed or regeneration. Instead, it was something far more subtle, yet terrifyingly effective.
His bones.
The density of his bones had increased across his entire body.
Not just his fists, but his forearms, shoulders, ribs, legs, and even his skull. It wasn’t enough to slow him down, nor did it restrict his movement. Instead, it made him solid, unnaturally so.
Every strike he delivered carried more weight.
Every block became harder to break through.
And every attempt to crush him was met with resistance far beyond what Jett had anticipated.
This wasn’t super strength. Unlike others whose muscles grew to match their power, Darno’s enhancement came from within, from the structure that held his body together. His muscles moved the same way they always had, but now they were anchored to something far more durable.
It made him the worst possible opponent for someone like Jett.
Jett attacked again, frustration fueling his movements. He stepped forward aggressively, absorbing another punch to the chest without retreating, and then surged forward, driving his foot into the floor and grabbing Darno’s forearm with both hands.
The grip was tight, crushing.
In the past, that would have been the end.
Jett had always relied on his grip strength, honed from years as a professional rock climber before his descent into the underworld. Even after his body grew larger and more muscular, that grip had remained his greatest weapon.
Once he grabbed someone, the fight was over.
Or at least, it used to be.
Jett squeezed down with everything he had, aiming to shatter Darno’s forearm the same way he had destroyed Stephen’s.
But instead of hearing bones crack, he felt resistance.
Strong resistance.
"What...?" Jett muttered.
Darno grimaced slightly as pain flared through his arm, but it was manageable. It wasn’t the catastrophic damage Jett expected. His bones held firm, unyielding, like reinforced steel beneath his skin.
"Let go!" Darno shouted.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he did something unexpected.
He stepped in.
Using the stability of his stance, Darno twisted his body and drove his fist straight into Jett’s forehead.
The sound was sickening.
Jett’s head snapped backward violently, as if struck by a cannonball. The force forced his grip to loosen instantly, his fingers releasing Darno’s arm as he staggered back several steps.
The crowd erupted.
Stephen, watching from the side, stared in disbelief. Any ordinary fighter would have shattered their hand punching someone’s forehead like that. Yet Darno’s fist remained intact.
So that’s it, Stephen thought. That’s his answer.
Darno returned to his stance once more, arms raised, posture calm.
"I think," Darno said steadily, "right now, I might be the worst person for you to be fighting."
Inside his mind, his teacher’s voice echoed clearly.
"You have never taken this martial art seriously, despite your natural talent," the voice said. "You fight recklessly. Aggressively. Like a bully with fists."
Darno remembered standing there, listening.
"So here is your Vow," the voice continued. "You will never dodge an attack aimed at you. You will not run. You will not evade. You will defend."
Darno clenched his fists.
"And you will never strike first."
The words had shaken him.
"Your nature will be reshaped, from aggression to defense. Stay true to this Vow. Stay true to the martial art I taught you. Do this, and you will become one of the strongest in the world."
Darno exhaled slowly, eyes locked on Jett.
I finally understand, he thought. This power... it suits me perfectly.